


Nobody's Hero (So Will You be Mine?)

by persnickett



Series: We Could Be Heroes [2]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:46:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/pseuds/persnickett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is where it always ends, in booze and hurt. But this time, they’ve blown past the whole untidy relationship part, and skipped right to the broken bottles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody's Hero (So Will You be Mine?)

It’s not long before Friday nights become the best and the worst part of John’s week.

The first time was almost a mistake, just picking up some take-out on the day he drove Matt home from the hospital. The kid couldn’t sit at a table what with the cast and the crutches so they ended up propped up against the pass-through in John’s kitchen, scarfing down cold noodles straight out of the boxes, and washing them down with warm beer John kept on hand for ‘company’. It was probably a testament to how little he got these days that he never bothered to put it into the fridge.

He’s not quite sure how it became a weekly tradition - something about contents insurance not ponying up enough for Matt to invest in a can opener for the new place yet or some other dumb thing they’d both been happy enough to wave off as total bullshit.

Now they sit around every week and eat takeout from an international smorgasbord of places Matt insists are going to ‘educate his palate’. John doesn’t know how much of that it accomplishes, all smothered in hot sauce that usually gives him indigestion, but they sit there and pretend to taste it while Matt focuses on criticizing the government and John watches Matt’s mouth move, and the way he holds chopsticks, and tries to pinpoint the exact moment in his life he turned into a dirty old man.

After that they move to the couch and ‘watch’ TV, which when it’s the kind of Friday that turns out to be the best part of John’s week, means more arguing about professional athletes’ stats versus their salaries, or the cult of celebrity in America and the classic movie of the week, than much actual watching of anything.

When it’s the kind of Friday night that’s the worst part of John’s week, it means sitting there in awkward silence while his shoulders bunch up and his mouth goes dry and John tries not to notice how Matt seems to sprawl out closer and closer across the cushions; tries to ignore the lean thigh next to his own in such close proximity that John could swear he can feel the warmth of the kid’s body heat against his skin.

Tonight is one of the bad nights.

Tonight Matt’s arm is flung across the back of the couch so far toward him that his fingers rest just below John’s ear. Never quite able to sit completely still, Matt is picking idly at the couch fabric. Every scratch of fingernails along the seam sounds like a buzz-saw against John’s ear drum; his head aching from gritting his teeth all night against the ticklish-shivering reaction that wants to tumble down his spine with each occasional graze of a knuckle against his lobe that seems less and less accidental every time.

Tonight goes from bad to worse when John gets up to get them fresh drinks and Matt follows. He crowds up behind him and hooks his chin over John’s shoulder, the angle of his jaw fitting warmly into the curve of his neck. Tonight is the last straw.

“Get off.” John shrugs him off, careful to keep the motion forward enough not to catch the kid in the throat, but hard enough he thinks he hears Matt’s teeth click together just the same.

When he turns around, Matt’s brows are lowered a little, but he seems otherwise unfazed. The hint of a smartass little smile is playing incongruously around his lips.

“Cut it out,” John says firmly. It’s still gruff, but a little softer this time, holding maybe just the tiniest note of the plea it really is, for his sanity. He pushes the fridge door wide so Matt can peruse the contents without draping himself all over him. “Just tell me what you want.”

The thick brows move back upward again and John is sure he isn’t imagining the speculative way Matt’s gaze rakes over him in response. His head is still aching, and he resists a strong urge to roll his eyes. Jesus, he’s been spending entirely too much time around this kid.

Then, whatever game they’re playing, Matt kicks it up a notch. He steps forward, leaning in to slip an arm under John’s and push the fridge door slowly shut.

John lets him do it, but he stands his ground – lifts his chin at yet another invasion of his personal space, maybe throws out his chest a little for good measure.

“I’d like you to find a better excuse to come hide in the kitchen than beer, for a start,” Matt says, all cheeky and low, with a nod at the brown bottles clutched in each of John’s hands. He lets go of the fridge handle and lays his hand boldly in the centre of John’s chest. “If I have any more I’m going to start making bad decisions.”

John tucks his chin and looks belligerently down at the contact. “Looks like you’re about to make a doozy,” he growls, warningly.

He’s not _hiding_. But whatever he’s doing, being called on it is confirmation he probably didn’t really need that none of Matt’s behavior tonight has been a mistake.

The threat seems to have no effect. Matt’s palm stays splayed out over the worn flannel of his shirt like it belongs there, like a slight curve of the fingers might be enough to let one of them hook naughtily in under the space between the buttons, find skin. Neither of them moves.

When John looks back up Matt is watching him, all silent and sloe-eyed. Waiting. For God only knows what.

“You asked what I want.”

John gives in, takes a retreating step backward, breaking off the contact and saving what is left of his dwindling sanity. The foggy ache in his head gives a quiet throb.

“You don’t know what you want.”

“Excuse me?” That, apparently, Matt finally takes exception to. The soft gaze goes cold, and those expressive brows draw closer together in irritation. “And you do?”

John shakes his head, not that that does a thing to clear it. He’s never been any good with explanations. “This…whole thing. It’s not what it feels like, alright?”

“But you feel it.” Matt takes half a step toward him again. “I’m not crazy,” he breathes. There’s relief thrumming through the little self-affirmation, and elation, and a little something else John can’t quite name. “I knew you felt the same, I knew it!”

Matt surges forward, reaching out like he’s about to put his hand to John’s chest again, but John raises the beer bottle in his left hand quellingly.

“I said cut it out!” It comes out in a bark, but John reins himself in, lowers his tone before he goes on. “I mean it. You gotta— just quit touching me.” He can’t be sure either one of them isn’t crazy, not at all.

Matt drops back a little, but there’s that smartass little smile again, and John wonders how the hell he’s going to explain this without fucking it up royally, when he’s clearly just said too much already. He’s giving too much away, too much about Matt’s touch and what it does to him. It’s dangerous, the power this kid seems to have with him. And now Matt knows it.

“I saved your life.” John’s tone is terse, and he’s not sorry. It’s better like this, better to nip it in the bud. “This is just what happens.”

“Oh come _on_ , McClane,” Matt says. Dark eyes roll skyward, and that same little smile refuses to budge. “You save a lot of people.”

“Exactly!” John grates.

Matt blinks. His hands fall to his sides. “Well how many of them—”

“ _Enough,_ ” John cuts across him before he can say anything that makes this seem less insane than it obviously is. Matt is, what, twenty-five? Twenty-eight at a stretch – and dear God, how crazy is it that John doesn’t even know.

How can he still not know a thing about Matt – besides that he’s mouthy and hyperactive and evidently several kinds of genius. He knows Matt makes him laugh – more than he can say for most folks these days – he’s loyal to a fault, and a steady source of pain in John’s ass. He’s oddly not a bad shot with a handgun.

But he’s young. Way, way too young, and he’s inexperienced and he’s never been where they are before. John has, and it never leads anywhere good.

Matt’s fingers are flexing in an odd sort of tapping motion against his thighs, as if typing some message out on an imaginary keyboard. It’s almost like the habit of moving his fingers to communicate is so deeply ingrained he can’t form words without doing it. But then he’s not talking, either.

“The hell is that,” John prompts, “what are you doing?”

“Counting to ten.”

“Doesn’t look like counting,” he points out.

“Because I’m …doing it in binary,” Matt says in a rush, like he doesn’t want to get off the subject. He takes a breath. “You know, you said something to me, the day we met. You said you’re nobody’s hero.”

John doesn’t like the sound of where this is headed. Matt’s hands aren’t doing that tapping, counting thing anymore, and he folds his arms across his chest, tucks his fists in under his arms.

“You’re nobody’s hero alright,” he accuses. “Know why? Because you won’t let anyone _make_ you their hero. You saved me in every way there is.” Matt unfolds his arms, puts his hands together in an odd little supplicating kind of gesture. “Do you know, can you even comprehend,” he goes on, unclasping his hands to bounce one dramatically off the side of his head, “what my life was like before I met you? I just—”

Matt breaks off his impassioned little speech, steps forward a bit.

“…You’re not giving me the chance to do the same for you.”

“I said quit it,” John says firmly, raising the bottle in his hand once more. Matt is looking like reaching for him again and John can’t have it. Not with that dangerously imploring look Matt’s got happening in those big brown eyes. Not with those words, and that begging note in his voice, and the ache of resistance simmering away behind John's eyes, and in his gut now, too.

Not with the way the thought of just _letting_ him goes right through him; stabbing through his chest and prickling his skin and calling back all those strange sense-memory shivers that drove John up off the couch tonight – and damn near out of his mind.

But Matt doesn’t quit it. John knew he’d given too much away, and the kid’s got the bit between his teeth now.

“You know what, McClane? Tough.” Matt takes another step forward, and John leans back, pulls his arm up out of range as Matt reaches out. “That’s right, tough. You’re good at that, aren’t you?” They’re close enough he can get right in John’s face now, close enough he can feel Matt’s breath move the air. He can smell the beer on him, and something sweet – soap or deodorant, maybe even shampoo – and John could almost swear he can feel the tense energy radiating off of him, too. “So suck it up,” Matt says, reaching out. “So this is what happens. So what, big deal!” He bats Matt’s hand away once, twice. “Seriously, what is the big deal if we just—”

John drops the bottle in his hand in favour of Matt’s wrist.

It doesn’t shatter and explode like John might have thought, throwing shards of glass and splashes of foam against their shins. The bottom corner that hits the floor first just crunches and crumples in on itself, still half held together under the label yet eagerly opening itself out over the floor tiles like a smashed egg.

But the plaintive clink as it hits is catastrophic anyway, drawing both of them up short and drying up any more arguments either of them might have been about to use before it can leave their throats.

Matt is panting. John feels like he might be, too. The pulse against John’s palm is racketing away at an uneven gallop.

The furious glare Matt is giving him is anything but frightened. John glares back. He’s not at all sure he can say the same.

“This is how people get hurt,” he mutters tersely, looking down at the floor and using the stiff angle of Matt’s arm to push him backward, away from the mess of beer and glass.

He’s getting better at this, he thinks, viciously. This is where it always ends, in booze and hurt. But this time, they’ve blown past the whole untidy relationship part, and skipped right to the broken bottles.

“Hurt?” Matt huffs out a laugh that doesn’t sound funny at all. “You’re afraid of getting _hurt_?”

He’s rubbing absently at the place where John grabbed him as he talks, and John shoves away the guilty bitterness like a bad taste in the back of his throat. The kid pushed him, has been for months. He can’t be blamed for doing what’s right. For putting a stop to all this crazy shit. The fact that it’s already gotten out of hand only goes to show what a bad fuckin’ idea it is.

“So if we don’t do this,” Matt is saying, eyes glittering angrily as he points a finger out into the hall. “If I walk out that door right now instead, right this second, how’s that gonna feel? Are we both going to feel just peachy about that?”

“I’m not afraid of getting hurt,” John answers him, looking around for a dish towel within reach. “Jesus.”

“What!” Matt says, way too loud, throwing his hands into the air as he does. “What is your big issue then!? It’s not that you’re too homophobic,” he rants on, “you already admitted you can feel it. Is it some kind of…Viagra thing?” Matt gives an indelicate glance down at the crotch of John’s jeans.

Oh Jesus Christ. John gives up on cleaning up and rounds on him.

“I’m afraid of hurting YOU!!”

Matt stops rubbing at his wrist, puts his hands down by his sides like a guilty toddler hiding a broken cookie jar. John’s shout seems to have stunned the kid into silence for a second. But it doesn’t last long.

“Every time I go home alone, and jerk off in the shower, and convince myself I’m losing _my goddamn mind_ feeling like this,” Matt starts off quiet but the intensity in his voice keeps ratcheting upward, like his self-control is starting to crack. “Every time our knees touch a little bit on the couch and you jump up and make some excuse to go to the kitchen like my skin fucking scalds you? When you treat me like a leper the rest of the night and then you won’t take my calls for three days? How do you think I feel then? Huh!? What do you call that?”

Matt stops talking and just stares at him with that blazing, barely-contained look like he’s expecting an actual answer.

John calls it Friday night. He calls it the worst part of his week. He calls Matt being just as screwed up over this thing as he is confirmation that it’s no damn good for either of them.

He can’t say any of it.

“Aren’t you supposed to be dating my daughter?” John says spitefully, instead. “What are we calling _that?_ ”

Matt just scoffs that distinctly unfunny laugh again, and looks up at the ceiling like the answer to this whole fucked up situation might be written there. When he looks back down at John there’s something wrong with the way his face looks. More wrong than the heated, angry scowl John’s been introduced to tonight. The fire in Matt’s eyes is dead now, and the chill of what giving up looks like slaps him in the gut harder than anything else Matt has thrown at him tonight.

“You know what? Man up, McClane.” Matt shrugs, disaffectedly. “Yeah, you might get hurt, it happens to the rest of us all the time. People fall in and out of love every damn day.” Matt shakes his head, looks away through the pass-through window and out into the hall with a strange, incredulous little smile. “I never thought I’d say this,” he says finally, “but you’re acting like a pussy.”

Then there’s nothing else. Just footsteps in the hall and the brief jangle of keys the pocket of Matt’s jacket, as he snatches it off the hat stand by the door. There’s a soft curse and the clatter of what has to be the hat stand falling over, and then the obligatory, vindictive slam.

And John waits until Matt has made good on his threat of walking out his door before he turns around and hurls the other beer bottle against the kitchen wall.

The dark glass explodes impressively, and white foam erupts spectacularly into the air, and the shattering crash does absolutely fuck-all against the echo of what is left ringing in his ears. It’s patently unsatisfying.

He’s been called a lot of things in his time. He’s had a hell of a lot of people scarier and more powerful than Matt tear him a new one, more times than he could count.

But to come into his home and use words like that, like weapons – words that had no damn business coming out of a mouth as young as Matt’s so twisted up with anger. Words that had no business being tossed around John McClane’s one-bedroom apartment kitchen, or anywhere near his self-contained, independent life ever again.

Somewhere in the middle of all that telling him off, Matt used the word _love_.

It’s left a hockey-puck sized dent John is going to have to fix now, and some of the glass is still stuck in the wall. And John just stands there, chest heaving, and fingers twitching, and watches the foamy, amber tears sliding down the drywall into the rapidly spreading puddle crawling across the floor to pool miserably into the mess of where the first broken bottle is still bleeding itself out onto the linoleum.

**

John runs his hand over the fresh shave on his head, and then on his jaw, one last time. He isn’t getting any better lookin’, standing out here in the damn hallway. And he certainly ain’t getting any younger.

He forces himself to knock on the door, pulls out his shield as an afterthought and holds it up to the peephole.

“Open up,” he calls, “cops!”

There’s a wave of profanity-laced grousing from behind the door, and then the knob turns abruptly and John is greeted with the strikingly familiar sight of Matt’s single dark eye and shock of black-brown hair, peering balefully at him through the crack of the door with the chain still on.

“Looking for a…Daisy Duke,” John says, trying to remember what other smartass bullshit Matt had given him right before John’s Fourth of July weekend went totally to shit, and then beyond. “Like to ask you some questions.”

Matt looks at him for a minute, expression unreadable, then slams the door shut. It’s a second before he hears the chain slide loose.

“What are you doing here?” Matt asks, rather predictably, once he has the door open again. The apartment behind him looks relatively unchanged from the day John moved him in. He supposes that shouldn’t be a surprise. It hadn’t taken long. Matt really didn’t have that many boxes.

“Manning up,” John answers, unzipping his jacket and stepping forward into the doorway.

“Are you sure?” Matt replies, eyeing the t-shirt revealed under the black leather instead of stepping back into the apartment to let him in. “I wouldn’t have thought pink was your colour— I’m sorry, is that _tie dye_?”

“Acid wash.”

“I stand corrected,” Matt says wryly. He still hasn’t cracked a smile. “I didn’t know they made Pride-wear in nineteen seventy-eight.”

“Seventy-nine,” John corrects, producing his next trick from behind his back.

“Flowers!” Matt exclaims, with mock delight. “Because one of us has to be the girl in this scenario. …Even his apologies are marginally offensive,” he mutters, seemingly to nobody in particular.

But he takes the flowers and sticks his face in them anyway.

“They were out of daisies,” John responds. He can’t help but feel just a smidge encouraged. “Aren’t you going to ask me in? Offer me some coffee and a warrant?”

Matt looks up at him over his snoot-ful of lilies and John tries really, really hard not to think _pretty_.

“You know, I would,” Matt says sweetly, “but I should really go put these in some napalm.” He turns and walks away into the apartment, but he leaves the door open. “I’ve gotta have some sulphuric acid around somewhere…”

It’s the closest to an invitation he’s going to get, and John takes it, follows Matt a couple paces inside and closes the door behind him.

“Were you serious about having questions for me?” Matt asks over his shoulder, from where he’s standing at the kitchen sink. “Or was that just an excuse to get in here and start being socially incorrect?”

“Nah, I got questions,” John answers honestly. Matt doesn’t stop what he’s doing – which appears to be jamming his bouquet into a soup pot and filling it with water from the tap – so John goes ahead and asks him something. “What’s your favourite colour?”

That does the trick. Matt turns around, but his eyes are narrowed suspiciously and he doesn’t answer. John raises an eyebrow.

“Red,” Matt answers, eyes still skeptical, and sounding not a little bit like he picked a colour at random. John just nods solemnly, takes a step further into the apartment.

“How old are you?”

Matt’s expression relaxes a little, and he leans back against the counter, wipes his wet hands on the thighs of his jeans. This, Matt seems to get. Apparently John isn’t the only one to have noticed how little they seem to have learned about each other up to now.

“Twenty-seven.”

John nods again, crosses the kitchen the rest of the way so he’s standing right in front of him.

“What are your parents’ names?”

“Brian and Janet,” Matt says, smiling a little now.

“Are Brian and Janet going to hunt us down and kick my cradle-robbing ass if I take you out Friday night?” John asks, finally.

The almost-smile evaporates right off Matt’s face. “They’d have a hard time,” he says slowly. “They’re dead.”

“Oh Jesus,” John says, stepping back away from him. “I knew this was a bad idea, I’m sorry kid, I—”

“Hey,” Matt is saying quickly, reaching out to catch the lapels of John’s jacket and pulling him close again before he can turn away. “Hey hey, it was a long time ago,” he soothes firmly, waiting for John to stop trying to get away before he lets his hands slide down to the bottom corners of his jacket, near the waist. “I’m good, it’s fine, I swear. C’mon, ask me something else,” he insists.

John looks down at Matt’s face turned earnestly up toward his. Matt does look fine, he’s smiling a little bit again.

“Do you wanna…talk about it?”

Matt looks at him, nods. “Yeah.” He’s still smiling. “Some other time, yeah I do.”

John nods back, grateful for the rain-check.

“Ask,” Matt says again.

“Alright.” John clears his throat before he goes on. “What’s the story with you and my kid?”

Matt smiles for real this time. He looks down at his hands, but still doesn’t let go of John’s coat.

“Ahhhh, we went out,” Matt admits, looking back up at him. “Once. We had dinner at a terrible Italian place – Lucy’s choice – and we kissed. Hey, she kissed me,” Matt adds, when John stiffens at the words. “Right before she told me I’m a really nice guy, she just prefers the kind with balls.”

“That’s my girl,” John says, under his breath.

“Oh undoubtedly,” Matt says, sounding chagrined. “These days she mostly just text-pesters me about growing a pair and getting together with you.”

“Jesus,” John swears again, but he’s got no time to take in this new information on his daughter’s unexpected insights on his love life, because Matt is tugging at the corners of his Jacket, pulling him closer and making him feel all sort of warm everywhere.

“Funny old world, huh? ...Ask me something else.”

John sighs, and lets Matt draw him a little closer – a little warmer, a little more of the feeling that he’s melting and going softer, from the spine outward.

“What do you want, Matt?” John asks next, surprised to hear his voice is going sort of soft and melted too.

Matt blinks, lets go his hold of John’s coat.

“At this point, whatever you can handle, I guess.” Matt leans backward against the counter again, wringing his hands together anxiously. “I mean, I know I was pushing it, that night at your place. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I was just—”

“Don’t tell me what you’ll settle for,” John interrupts. “That’s not an answer. Tell me what you want, Matt.”

“I told you,” Matt says, with a shrug. “There’s more ways to save somebody than keeping them breathing. We’re not the most social people. You and me, I mean. We don’t keep a lot of people around. …Don’t get me wrong, I like my space as much as the next guy – okay I love my space. Probably to an unhealthy degree. But after a while…” Matt looks up at John again and he doesn’t need to finish. John knows only too well how it can get to a guy. The constant quiet, the dinners alone. “You didn’t just save my life that day,” Matt says anyway. “You gave it…like, a _reason_. I just. Want to return the favour. I just want you to let me in.”

Huh.

“I think you’ve already returned that particular favour,” John admits, stepping closer again.

Matt had said it himself. John saved a lot of people. A lot of people who hadn't stuck around because they wanted him to be something he wasn't. They wanted him to be a hero. Nobody had ever told him they wanted him to stop.

“Yeah?” Matt reaches out to catch the corners of his jacket again, pull him closer still. “Any other _favours_ I might be able to do for you?”

“Jeez,” John says. “Zero to sixty. You’re not one of those guys who can’t hold out in the bedroom are ya? I’ll have to teach you how to slow down.”

“The upside of speed is I’m a fast learner,” Matt says, grinning and letting his hands wander from the ends of John’s jacket to his hips.

“Yeah? Why don’t we just start the lessons here,” John says, matching the stance and putting his hands to Matt’s waist.

“Okay,” Matt says, “oh, okay!” And John grabs and lifts, hoists Matt up and back a little so he can sit his ass up on the counter.

Matt is gripping John’s biceps now, eyes wide with the surprise of being lifted off the floor. The surprise has made him quiet for the moment too, and John takes the opportunity to move in for a kiss.

He’s prepared for it to be sort of anticlimactic, to be just like any other kiss. It makes sense after all this build up, all his holding out and resistance and denial. No simple kiss could expect to live up to all that.

But then it does.

Matt gives another breathy, surprised little “okay,” against his lips just before they touch, and the tremor in it goes straight down into him. It ignites the same thrumming energy somewhere in his chest, and begins feeding Matt’s desire through his veins like electricity.

The moment they touch, everything about Matt seems to come alive. He’s all breath and heat and lips and hands. Both those hands move straight to John’s jawline, pulling him in closer, and one leg hooks itself around his back, bumping his hips up against the counter in an effort to get him as close as Matt can.

The sheer enthusiasm of it is intoxicating, and Matt seems to be feeling the same, clutching at the back of his head to smash their mouths together all the harder; planting the other hand on the counter to push himself up against John’s torso as best he can.

The angle is awkward, and John’s shoulder is already aching from his little stunt getting Matt up there on the counter. If they want to be doing much more than this, he’s going to have to put a stop to it and move it somewhere safer.

Hell, maybe he should be putting a stop to it anyway. It’s their first damn kiss after all, and he’s the one talking about taking things slow.

“McClane?” Matt pants, sounding almost panicked to feel John pulling away.

John smiles a little to himself, with lips that feel used for once, maybe even a little swollen. He lets Matt come forward enough to lean their foreheads together.

“What do you want, Matt?”

Matt smiles indulgently back. “Well, now I really, really want get you out of these clothes. And not just because that shirt is…God that is awful,” he confirms, ducking his head down against John’s cheek for another look.

Matt looks up again, pink-cheeked and with lust-drunk eyes. He shakes his head disbelievingly.

John just grins into the next bruising kiss. To hell with taking it slow. He just about can’t wait for Matt to see the rainbow happy-face printed on the back.

~


End file.
